


Like Pulling Teeth

by moonblossom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drugged Sherlock, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining John, UST, awkward kisses, but not druggie sherlock, dental work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:11:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's back from the dentist and despite the narcotics he's observant and astute as ever. Little something for lovey, who was at the dentist today.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Pulling Teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [belovedmuerto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/gifts).



The moans and whining coming from the sofa far outclass anything merited by simple dental work, but then Sherlock has always been prone to histrionics.

"I am dying. I'm sure of it." Sherlock moans and burrows into the blanket John had draped over him when they first got home.

John rubs his eyes, picks up his mug, and heads into the living room to keep Sherlock company. He sits down on the coffee table, studying Sherlock's face. He's clammy, swollen, and his eyes are wide and glassy - an after-effect of the anaesthetic.

Sherlock Holmes - the man who chases armed criminals into dark alleys, the man who shoots holes in the wall for fun, the man who once threw himself off a roof to save the lives of his friends - has turned out to be thoroughly petrified of the dentist. After some discussion, they'd agreed that it would be easier simply to anaesthetise him fully, even for a simple root canal and extraction. John chuckles and reaches out to brush a lank tendril of hair off Sherlock's forehead.

Rolling onto his side, Sherlock stares blankly at John's teacup. "Where's mine? And some biscuits?"

His voice is whiny and thick, and John feels a familiar pang of affection for him that he pushes down and tries to ignore. "You can't have tea right now, Sherlock. Dr. Barlow told you." John looks down, checking his watch. "No food and no hot drinks for three more hours."

"But I'm hungry now." He scowls at John, who just chuckles.

"No you're not, you're just being contrary. You don't eat during cases. Pretend you have a case. The Adventure of the Missing Tooth."

"But I _do_ have a case." Sherlock giggles, a strange pitchy trill that gives John an inkling of what he might have been like as a child.

Smiling fondly, he decides to indulge Sherlock. "Do you now?"

Sherlock nods vigorously, wincing at the pressure in his jaw. "I do. It's pink. It's in the storage room in the basement." He giggles again and looks as sheepish as a man with a swollen mouth can; as if he's just revealed some great secret.

He's slurring his words slightly, and the hint of a lisp that he tries so hard to fight is coming out. Normally John only gets to hear it when Sherlock is exceptionally exhausted, or the few times they've ended up drunk, and the novelty never gets old. Something about Sherlock at his most vulnerable, his defenses and facade all down, always makes John's pulse flutter in his chest. He feels privileged to get to see this side of Sherlock that hardly anyone else ever gets to see.

"You still have that old thing? Didn't Lestrade take it?"

"Mm." Sherlock mumbles and rubs the smooth side of his face against the sofa cushion.

John frowns. "Mm is not an answer, Sherlock. Did you steal evidence from Greg?"

The muffled response from against the pillow sounds suspiciously like yes. John puts his mug of tea down on the table and scrubs his face in his hands. Sherlock is drugged and loopy, and he realises now is not the time for an argument, but if they've been sitting on stolen evidence for several years, he needs to know about it.

"Sherlock, why did you take it back? Do you keep a souvenir from every case that I'm not aware of?"

Sherlock sits up and throws the blanket off, glaring at John. He looks indignant, wounded. "Of course not. Just... that one. First one."

"Why did you nick it? Far as I know it's not your colour."

The quip, such as it is, garners another cascade of giddy snickering from Sherlock, and John finds himself joining in. Suddenly Sherlock's face stills and he turns to John, deadly serious. There's a glint of shocking clarity behind his glassy eyes.

"Sentiment."

There's a sudden rush of blood in John's ears, drowning out all other sounds. His heart is pounding frantically in his chest, and he takes a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. Sherlock is still loopy, still under the influence of the anaesthetic and the painkillers. John knows he can't read too much into anything Sherlock says right now, but part of him is unwilling to give up hope.

Hesitantly, he reaches out and takes one of Sherlock's damp hands in his own. He squeezes it gently, a gesture that could just as easily be interpreted as friendly comfort as anything else. The hand feels limp and soft in his own, but Sherlock stares at him, alert and wide awake now.

"It was our first case together, John. It seemed appropriate."

John bites his lip and swallows, unsure of how to respond. He's vaguely aware that he's stroking his thumb against the warm pulse of Sherlock's wrist, but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind. Sherlock blinks slowly, once, twice, and the sharp glint of awareness in his eyes fades as the narcotics take over again.

He grins at John, a goofy, lopsided, entirely guileless grin. "Kiss me, John."

The pounding in John's chest is entirely unbearable at this point.

"I can't, Sherlock. It's the drugs talking." His voice breaks slightly as he says it, and despite the narcotic haze, Sherlock is still _Sherlock_ enough to notice.

"You love me. You want to." The endearing pouting voice from earlier is back. Sherlock lies back down on the sofa, pulling the blanket up to his chin without ever letting go of John's hand. Their palms are overly warm and sticky, but John can't bring himself to pull away either.

"You need to rest, Sherlock. We can talk about this when you're lucid." John closes his eyes, picturing pressing his own lips against Sherlock's warm, soft ones, sliding his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. Picturing the two of them on the sofa, a messy tangle of limbs and clothing. He sighs and rubs his eyes with his free hand. Sherlock's grip on him has slackened but not released entirely.

As the pounding in his ears clears, he becomes aware of a new noise. A soft, muffled breathing - not quite snoring, but slightly ragged and nasal. Sherlock's nodded off again. Something in John's chest rattles as he pulls in a deep breath. He manages to extricate his hand from Sherlock's sleepy grip and tucks the blanket firmly around his shoulders.

Before he's got time to stop himself, he bends down and impulsively brushes his lips across Sherlock's forehead. It's clammy and slightly cool, but rather than feeling unpleasant it feels like the most right, the most natural thing in the world.

Sucking in one last long, shuddering sigh, John stands up and crosses the sitting room to settle into his armchair, to keep an eye on Sherlock from a safer distance.

***

Several hours later, a sudden weight on John's knees wakes him with a jolt. The light in the flat is cold and dim, rivulets of rainwater like mercury running down the windows. It takes John a moment to orient himself, to realise he's nodded off in his chair while watching Sherlock.

The source of the weight becomes apparent when he looks down. Sherlock's squatting at his feet, elbows resting on John's legs. He's smirking up at John, alert and impish, no sign of the drugged haze from earlier. His cheek is still slightly swollen, but much improved. John sighs with relief before tensing up again, wondering how much of their previous conversation Sherlock has retained.

"You're looking better." He says, trying to sound casual.

Sherlock, apparently, is having none of it. "We need to talk, John."

"No we don't, Sherlock. It's fine. You were out of it. Forget it." He gives Sherlock what he hopes is a convincing smile. He should know better. Sherlock stands up, looming over John in the chair, and frowns.

"The cat is, as they say, out of the bag, John. I know what I said. I meant it."

The pounding is back in John's ears as he looks up, studying Sherlock's face for some sign of disingenuousness, some teasing smirk. He finds none. John makes a move to stand up and Sherlock steps back, giving him space. He gets up and shakes off the last vestiges of sleep before moving forward, standing close to Sherlock.

"Why... now? How long have you known?"

The look on Sherlock's face is impossible to categorise - even for John, who has plenty of experience. Frustration, hope, amusement, apprehension. All masked by the slight swelling along his jawline. Even puffy-faced and petulant, he's impossibly handsome. Before John is even aware of what he's doing, he reaches up and runs his fingers along the non-swollen side of Sherlock's jaw. In response, Sherlock closes his eyes and sighs in apparent pleasure.

"For a while now. But, John, you know I don't have a lot of experience in this area. I needed to be sure, and, as cowardly as it sounds, I needed an out. I figured if I told you in a medically induced haze and you panicked, I could pretend I didn't mean it, pretend it never happened."

"Calculating bastard." John murmurs, but with more affection than the words belie.

Sherlock smirks with the good side of his mouth. "Did it work?"

Rather than give him a straight answer, John tilts his chin up and presses his lips to the corner of Sherlock's. Mindful of Sherlock's tender mouth, the gentle is soft and chaste, but the roaring rush of blood in John's ears is back nonetheless, accompanied by a furious pounding in his heart. When John pulls back, Sherlock's eyes are wide, his cheeks red.

Eagerly, Sherlock wraps his long, cool fingers around either side of John's face and pulls him in for another kiss. John can't help but chuckle though, as Sherlock winces and pulls back with a quiet hiss.

"Getting ahead of ourselves, are we?" John smirks at the grumpy scowl on Sherlock's face. "C'mere, you." He takes one of Sherlock's hands in his own and laces their fingers together, marvelling at how easy and comfortable it is. He leads Sherlock into the kitchen and fetches an icepack from the freezer. Wrapping it in a cotton flannel, he holds it up to Sherlock's cheek.

"Here you go, this should help."

"Thank you, John."

John raises a brow. "It's just an ice pack. You never thank me for saving your life, but you thank me for putting a cold compress on your cheek. Priorities, Sherlock." He laughs quietly, but stops when he sees the earnest expression on Sherlock's face.

"No, not for this. For everything."

 


End file.
